


the cost and size of stone

by troutlaw



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, Multi, Other, Retrospective, Slice of Life, uhhh there are some sheep, useless gay dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 06:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutlaw/pseuds/troutlaw
Summary: sometimes pallene stops and thinks about what would be left of her life when they finally laid her in the cold dark earth -a length of yarn, some cones of incense, a wooden staff with deep gouges taken out of it. a well loved pair of boots.it makes her feel sick and sad and full of warmth all at once, and she decides that is enough for her.





	1. Chapter 1

pallene is young, sitting cross-legged underneath a tree, leaves on the grass all green and gingko-rugged.

in the crook of her ankle rests a staff, an odd branch she found when she was younger - her sister tied yarn around the end when pieces of the bark fell away or got chewed off. most of it fell off and she replaced it instead with some ribbon and a bootlace. from where she sits she can see the slow shapes of sheep off-white and dun-brown amble across the meadow. the graceful raise of the highland ewe's head hurries those around her forward, great gray horns urging them onwards in a silent ritual as they row from one side of the field to the other through the course of the day.

when they reach the far end of the pasture where pallene can only see back ends and cropped spots of bare earth and the occasional lifting of sheep-head over sheep-shoulder, the sky is red-orange and alive with insects. she sets out across the field, closing distance between her and the flock. the sheep file in a fine line through the gate and pallene takes a moment, turns on her heels, leans on the gate.

the sky is wild and wide enough to swallow her whole, orange like the bitter merigolds on the outcroppings of stone along the hills, orange like the fruit-colored dewlap of an anole lined up with the fence, orange like the meat of a nectarine she once cut open and later buried in the garden.

(it made her stomach turn. she felt terrible for hurting something that never hurt her, and wanted to tell her sister about it, and didn't, and that made her feel even worse.)

by the time she looks away all the color in her world has gone a little gray for a moment, eyes blown out from the nectarine-marigold sky as she shuts the gate behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

pallene is drowsy and examining her fingers. 

the shallow indentations of needle-eye against her skin ache but she pays no mind, speaks no word. another trouser leg to stitch back up, another hem to fix. a pile of socks to be darned. 

a nord sits across from her, set to speaking in a long joyful babbling ramble with high trilling r's and a lilt that lists downwards at the end of a sentence. in her brief pauses for breath pallene can hear the farrier scolding some soldiers back from a patrol, the awkward scuffing of boot against snow as the horsehand's voice rises in frustration. across the camp her sister is talking with a blacksmith, delicate chin lifted in an attempt to match his height. from this distance she can't make out what they're talking about, especially not as the nord calls her attention back in from the half-focus she had before.

"pallene? were you listening?" 

she squints a little in response.

"i was just explaining how things - "

"if you can say something, say it tailoring," sighs pallene, pushing the basket of threadbare socks towards her. 

she hesitates only for a moment before working through the pile of old wool and still-to-be-spun roving at her feet, sentences trailing into one another just as quickly as she starts talking. the air is more still than before but it doesn't bother pallene. 

in her lap is a sheaf of cornflower blue fabric underneath the pile of shapeless, barely held together knitting. she rubs the fabric between her fingers in admiration - the blue darts of cloth had come straight off the loom, bound off at the edges to prevent fraying. with any luck the newer fabric would last months as a blanket or a scarf or a makeshift tent, but the one in her hands has a wide shear taken out the middle by an imperial sword. 

(she knows this isn't true - only the first portion of the rip is clean enough to have caught the edge of a blade. the rest is warped and uneven; the telltale signs of intentional tearing despite the insistence of valor.) 

the thread feels brittle in her hands as she unspools a length to mend the sash, but when she goes to pull apart and snap off the end of the thread, the tension is enough to nearly cut into her hands and leave dark red lines on the soft parts of her fingers - it doesn't break skin but the bruisy welts sting all the same. 

"damn," she mutters, and returns to her work.


End file.
